Nowhere Land
by BlueBird Blues
Summary: After a botched mission, Clint Barton slips into hiding at SHIELD's request. Stranded until his clearance is reissued, he is met with one of the greatest challenges he's faced in years: leading a civilian life. CB x OC
1. Chapter 1

I guess I have Jeremy Renner (and the outpouring of encouragement I have received from reader's and authors I thoroughly admire) to thank for this story. My interest in Hawkeye wasn't peaked until my third viewing of The Avengers movie. It should be noted that this piece of work is based entirely on Renner's performances. I know little about the Clint Barton from the comics, but from what I can gage they are two different beasts.

Thank you for clicking onto my little story. I appreciate any reviews, opinions, comments, suggestions. I hope you enjoy. Future chapters will be longer, I assure you. This is more of an introduction…

* * *

**A Hawkeye Fanfiction**

**Nowhere Land**

* * *

There would only be one witness that night. The calico perched atop a stone wall. The cat, a tried and true citizen of Moscow in its own right, was not at all fazed by the sight of a dying body and the creature surveyed the scene with only a mild curiosity. It's piercing yellow eyes held more light that than the moon above and they had seen it all.

The poor bastard never had a chance. It was clear he was already injured as he fought his way through the snow that had fallen from the sky only hours before. Spots of dark blood trickled from a wound in his side. His breath was so labored that any attempts to cry out for help were drowned in his overwhelming fear. His attempted escape had been a foolish one indeed.

The shot had been silent, slipping through the air with wicked precision. His last moments were spent mulling over the shock of what had hit him. It was no bullet that hit him, but an arrow. He could tell that the weapon was embedded deep in his neck. There was no hope for him now.

The only watcher cocked its head to the side drinking in the scene. _Another day, another death_, it thought languidly as its tail swung from side to side. He sat above the bemoaning body until its sensitive ears picked up the sound of two men approaching. Slithering its way across the stone wall, the cat vanished into the night. It knew better than to get caught up in the nasty business of the humans. It could bring nothing but trouble.

The two men approached as silently as the killing shot. The first of them was addled, shaking with a mixture of anger and shame. He squatted over the body, grabbing the dead man's wrist.

"The hell with it," he muttered, spitting his spite to the deep snowy ground. "He's dead."

The second man, the one who had fired the shot, came up from behind. He was far too busy inspecting his bow to bother with the body himself. It didn't matter to him; he already knew the man's fate.

"There was nothing we could do." The second said, not a sliver of remorse or regret tingeing his voice. A wave of clouded breath rolled from his mouth, catching the light of the moon and slipping into the air like smoke.

The first man rose up from his haunches. "You don't have to tell me. The only question is..."

"...who's gonna tell Fury?"

* * *

"So, you wanna tell me what happened?"

Nick Fury wasn't a man quick to anger. In his line of work, lack of rage management would likely lead to a swift end. Better to keep a level head and let others do the worrying for him.

It was one of the perks of being the Director. Usually, he would never have to deal with bullshit like this. However, Barton was one of his best agents. And this failure would leave traces over every department. Which meant Fury would have to do something about it, lest he have to answer to the call of the council.

"A mistake was made." Agent Clint Barton said. He sat relaxed in his chair, arms folded over his chest, entirely unfazed by the scene spread out before him.

The room was a flood of darkness, save for one bright light centered over the table. Pictures and documents were scattered over the table's surface. Evidence of a case undone by a single mistake. Flanking Fury on either side stood the highest ranked agents SHIELD had to offer.

The first being Agent Maria Hill. Her no-nonsense, just get it done attitude had served her well in her eight years as an agent of SHIELD. When Fury was absent, she filled his stead, projecting the same amount of fear and respect that her superior did. The second was Agent Phil Coulson. His figure was less intimidating, but Barton knew better than to expect anything less of the balding man. There was a reason he was known as "Fury's Good Eye."

Clint chose not to meet the eyes of his director, he felt no apprehension. Such feelings had been trained out of him long ago. So even when the Director snorted in a manner of tangible venom that made the other subordinates in the room shift with unease, Agent Barton stayed unmoving.

"Now I'm gonna just pretend you didn't say that." Director Fury barked, clapping his hands together over the table. "I am well passed the level of mistakes. As far as I'm concerned, my people don't make mistakes. Up here at this level, "mistake" isn't in the dictionary. Do you understand that, Agent Barton?"

Clint proffered no response, made no move to signify whether or not he did in fact understand. The truth was, he had nothing left to say. He had already spelled out each and every bit of action that had taken place in Moscow on the 23rd of October from the time of 1:27 a.m. to 1:33 a.m.

One of his men, one he had been training since his very first day, had lost his nerve. The target, a member of an occult syndicate known only as The Forgers, was to be brought in for questioning. The hope being that the target would give them all the information they needed in return for safe passage out of Russia. However, as Clint had already said, a mistake had been made. With their position revealed, the target made to flee. The only option was to end his life, in turn ending SHEILD's chances at drawing any information from potential informants inside the syndicate. Not only was the extraction attempt ruled a resounding failure, it appeared the missions as a whole would have to be put on hold.

"Look I know those agents were amateurs, but I sent them into the field believing their leader would be enough of a compensation." Fury said, ignoring Clint's silence.

"Well, maybe I'm not meant to lead." Clint snapped. He was done with this. Fury was tip-toeing and Clint didn't appreciate being treated like a rookie. He knew what was coming, and wanted to bypass the lecture and jump right into the eye of the storm.

Fury, realizing this, tilted back in his chair, running a tired hand over his scalp. This was the part of the job he hated most.

"Barton, you know what I'm going to say. So let's get too it…"

Clint steeled himself for Fury's next words. The words he had been waiting for.

"I think you need a vacation."

Even though Clint knew it was coming, he couldn't help the flood of rage that was swift to consume him. It was gone in another moment, but swells from the wave still pulsed in his veins.

A vacation.

It was the damned kiss of death to any agent who had been in the field as long as Clint Barton. His line of work wasn't suited for rest or relaxation. From experience, he knew that it was better to keep trudging forward, never looking back, and certainly never taking the time to stop and reflect.

"Sir, with all due respect-"

"This is nonnegotiable, Agent Barton." Fury said, rising from his chair. Agents Coulson and Hill stood at attention.

"Agent Coulson will make the necessary arrangements and see that your...vacation is in order."

"Sir." Coulson responded, casting an apologetic look in Barton's direction.

"When the time is right, you'll be hearing from us."

* * *

He could hear the whisperings already. For a covert security agency, SHIELD was a hotbed of rumors and hearsay. It wouldn't be long before most everyone knew the truth. The Hawk was heading into hiding, his clearance banished until the heat from his failed mission had turned to ice. There was no telling how long he would be gone.

Clint stood in front of his locker, clutching the door. Having hung up his suit, his bow and his quiver, there was nothing left for him to do but leave. He sighed, trying to contain what was left of his rage. This was the last place he wanted to be.

His phone jolted in his pocket. Without bothering to see who was calling he pulled the phone to his ear.

"I've just heard."

A small, grim smile teased at the corner of his lips as he glanced down at the watch wrapped round his wrist. Twenty minutes. She was getting slow.

"Tasha," Clint said, unable to hide his amusement.

"What happened?" Natasha, the notorious Black Widow asked. He tone was rightfully accusatory. The pair was set to take down a rogue agent the following week. Now that she was short a partner, The Widow was less than content.

"Does it matter?" Clint spat sardonically.

There was a sliver of a pause on the other end.

"No."

Clint nodded to himself, knowing he was right. Natasha was the last person he needed to explain himself to.

"It'll be over before you know it, Clint." Natasha said, trying and failing to sound comforting.

"So you say."

"Clint. It's easy."

Clint scoffed, slamming the locker door shut. When the door hit home it shook and mirrored his frustration, rattling up a storm.

Of course it was easy for Natasha. The woman was like a snake, easily adaptable. She could slither her way into any crowd and within seconds seem as though she had been the first of their numbers to appear. Clint on the other hand, wasn't one for blending in. He had his shadows, his hideaways, his nest as some of the joker so tenderly put it. His skill set did not allow for much contact.

"We all need a vacation once in a while." Natasha said.

"You don't believe that." Clint said, hoisting his pack over his shoulder and leaving the locker room.

"No. I don't." Natasha said, knowing she had been caught in a lie. "So, where are you going to go?"

Clint sighed. He caught Coulson's gaze from the end of the hall. Accepting an envelope from "The Good Eye," Clint nodded to Coulson. He flipped the envelope over and read the type face splashed across the ticket.

"Nowhere."

* * *

Again, I know it's short. It's only the beginning after all. Future chapters will be longer. And again, thank you for reading and I would love to hear your opinions on this story.

To readers of my other stories, please no that Heroes and Thieves is my number one priority. That doesn't mean I can't multitask, yes?

If this is the first story of mine you are reading, please feel free to check out my pages and my other Avengers stories, I'm quite proud of them you see.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so glad people are excited for this story, because I sure am! Based on several reviews, I feel as though I should clarify something before beginning this next chapter. This is an OC story. There will be no romantic inclusions of The Black Widow. While she certainly may be coming back in later chapters, I'll just say now that never has Clint or Natasha harbored romantic (or even sexual) feeling towards one another. At least not in my story. Also, I believe last time I failed to mention that this story will be taking place Pre-Avengers and while it really doesn't mean much, it does take place in the same plain as Heroes & Thieves. With that out of the way, thank you so much for reading!

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_**Chapter 2**_

_**Nowhere Man**_

* * *

If asked to rely on instinct, most people would tell you that it's best to hide in the country. The country is quiet; far from cameras and suspicious eyes.

Well those people, most people, would be dead in a matter of days if ever faced with that choice.

The only way to survive was to vanish. To disappear. And to do it quickly, with relative ease.

Defenses were important as well. In the event that one was found, they would have to have the tools necessary to make another disappearance. In the countryside there were little resources to pool and few places to burrow in without garnering the attention of the locals.

Cameras or no cameras, cities were mazes. They held enough nooks, crooks, and crannies to keep even the clumsiest of runaways well hidden. With stretching towers, poorly lit allies, miles of underground tunnels and far too many people of every size, shape and color, the city was the landscape for the refugees.

While some were better off taking refuge in foreign, less technologically savvy lands, Hawkeye network of nest had always been located within more familiar lands. Clint was no master of disguise or characters like his often-partner the Black Widow. It was not in his nature to alter himself in such a way. He simply relied on the athletic prowess and steely eye to survive in the world. Fortunately for Clint, Director Fury knew and respected his top agents well enough to never place them in situations that would leave them at a disadvantage if at all possible.

Which is how Clint Barton came to find himself once again boarding a plane to New York City.

* * *

There was nothing, not one thing, Clint Barton found appealing about New York City.

Some would say it was the center to the world. When questioned, they would cite the thriving urban living, the people of all countries and backgrounds, the culture, the art, the fact that Manhattan was its own little world cut off from the rest of the earth. It was the epitome of the long lost American dream. Countless songs had been penned in tribute to the slivery stretch of land, films showcased the packed sidewalks and picturesque parks, and tourists flocked like cattle to snap pictures, hoard souvenirs and earn bragging rights.

New York was a city with a pulse, its loyal defenders would say. Although it never slept, it was always dreaming. It had been wounded; it had survived, and it continued to live on.

It was a befitting sentiment: The city at the center of the world. A living breathing creature all on its own.

Clint, however, couldn't believe in it. It wasn't his job. It was against his code.

To Clint, New York City was not the center of the world. It was the end of it.

With exception to a rare assignment, Clint only visited the city when forcible removed from duty. When he had first joined SHIELD, the directive had been under the strict command of Nick Fury. Soon enough, the balance of power began to worry several longstanding factions and The Counsel had been created. The counsel's instatement brought much change to the organization. Precautionary regulations were quickly introduced, including "vacation time." Points of refuge and safety were procured and reinforced all over the globe to insure agents that, if compromised, they would be taken care of. For top ranking agents that had made subsequent names for themselves, special safe houses had been built just for them. Clint had three to his name. One in Toronto, one of London and one in New York. Each safehouse, felt less homey to Clint and more like a prison. What it lacked in bar covered windows and round the clock guards, it made up for in strict rules.

The rules of an agent's time spent off active duty were deceptively simple. Do not make civilian connections. Do not attempt to contact any SHIELD operatives, active or inactive. Do not handle weaponry unless under extreme duress…

There was only one "Do" swimming in a bleak sea of heady "Do Nots."

Do survive.

This was simple enough for most agents. However, taking into account the gravity of Clint's disastrous mission, and the syndicate that had, without a doubt, secured a good glance at his face, the Hawk would have his work cut out for him. That is, if the Russians he had been working against ever tracked down his location.

The chance of being hunted never affected Clint Barton however. For every head he had successfully shot down, cropped up several more looking for enacting revenge. Most of those heads had been finely dealt with as well. Most of them.

Clint couldn't bemoan his circumstances. It was, after all, the life he managed to scrape together from the wreck of his childhood. For all intents and purposes, he believed he had faired rather well.

So it was that, amidst a rainy October afternoon, Clint Barton arrived plainly by taxi at the hide he had been assigned to.

He stepped onto the curb, slinging his pack over his shoulder. Looking to the sky, a dusty drizzle of rain hitting her face, he eyed the top floor window he knew belonged to his temporary home for…

Well, he couldn't know for certain how long.

* * *

The nest he had been assigned to this time around was no different from the others spread around the world. While most homes, however, were used for both vacation purposes as well as checkpoints for field agents struggling through difficult missions, this hide was solely for Clint's use.

He would expect no visitors, no passing agents, no hope of news.

There was nothing particularly modern about Bethel Heights. The older building was constructed of browning brick and rusty metals; it was decidedly the most rundown building on the stunted, narrow block. The neighborhood wasn't so rough that bars were needed to serve as extra protection. The sign that hung above the door was uncared for and had been left unlit for many years. The door that sat atop a stained concrete stoop sported green chipped paint and a pair of heavily frosted glass windows.

It was merely an aging building in a quiet neighborhood. It had weathered storms, harsh winters, steamy summers, and several dozen different boarders. Unlike the string of gutted and newly developed apartment complexes that were sprouting up all over the city, Bethel Heights reflected a past New York that was beginning to be swallowed up. Faceless, still, and uncomplicated.

Any potential resident harboring the hopeful belief that the innards of Bethel Heights would be an improvement from the less than welcoming exterior would find their hopes dashed.

The tiled floors, gaudy papered walls and dark wood accents were reminiscent of a decade long gone. A small elevator was tucked just next to the stairs. It looked as if it belonged in a museum, it's crumbling pieces propped together and protected by inches of glass. It had long been broken down and unmoving. Just off the narrow entry hall sat a cramped sitting area. The space sported a pair of mismatched, dust-dipped arm chairs and a desk belonging to the landlord.

The landlord was known only to his tenants as Mr. V, his native Russian name being far too long and far too difficult to pronounce correctly. Mr. V was a grumpy, brute of a man. His voiced, still heavily accented and tinged from years upon years of cigar smoking, was calloused and there wasn't a person in the city who could understand his garbled English. More often than not, he communicated with his tenants through notes scratched onto whatever pieces of paper he could muster up. Tenants would often find requests and alerts scribbled onto the backs of voided checks or torn pieces of yellow paper stained by his pudgy tobacco dusted fingers.

* * *

As he had in the past, Clint arrived at the assigned refuge in the early mid-afternoon hours. He had chosen this time carefully . SHIELD had been careful to monitor every resident of the Bethel Heights complex. Although there were couples, no children could call the building home. Every resident was professionally employed in one way or another. They spent more time away from the apartment than inside of it. He knew that arriving just after 4 would leave him enough time to settle himself without his presence being realized by a fellow boarder.

From the moment he stepped past the threshold, he was no longer considered an agent of SHIELD. He had been given a passport and various other forms of identification. He was no longer a marksman, no longer an assassin, no longer an agent. In a sea of faces, he was just another drop. A civilian. He could no longer fight against the swell. As he always had.

The entry hall was as empty has Clint remembered. All was still, as if the room were holding tightly to a single breath unable to let it go.

After adjusting the strap of the pack and removing his sunglasses, Clint turned towards the stairwell and began his begrudging ascent. Though his eyes reflected a rather bored, rather unaware man, his mind was fast at work. With each trudging step Clint was careful to note the distinct sound and feel of each stair. Several were weakened by time and near constant use. There were three in particular he would have to be careful to skip over during all future treks up and down. The pained creaks and cries they emitted when stepped on would betray his location up to anyone who dared listen.

Several dozen stairs later, he had arrived at the top floor. Clint's nest was, at his request, located on the very top floor of the building. The higher up Clint found himself, the more at ease he felt.

The floor was constructed of wood panels. A long maroon rug, blanched from age, stretched across the hall. Slowly, he passed by the door that lay closest to the stairwell towards his past and future shelter.

He pulled a single brass key from a small padded envelope he had folded over and tucked into his back pocket. The key fit easily into the lock and with a forceful turn, the door yielded and swung open.

Clint was met with a sturdy silence. With the sun blocked by waves of storm clouds, the apartment was flooded with shadows, and Clint could see little past the door way. His feet stayed fixed to the ground. Again, he found himself filled to the brim with what could only be apprehension.

How long would he have to stay this time? How many days of his life would pass with nowhere for him to go and nothing for him to do? How many months would he be without the field, the only life he had come to understand?

So harrowing were these thoughts, so deadly in nature, that he didn't catch the distinct sound of another person climbing up the stairs. It wasn't until the stranger reached the top of the stairs that Clint was made aware of her presence.

"Oh! …Damn."

Swinging his head to the left, Clint's right hand, which had been unmoving and forgotten, fell to his pocket where a small gun was hidden. He relaxed his grip in a second realizing who it was.

His neighbor.

She was standing on the second to last step, bent over gathering together a collection of apples that had escaped from the cloth bag that must have slipped off of her shoulder. Her face was hidden under a thick sheet of dark brown hair made somewhat damp and frizzy by the steady drizzle of rain outside.

When she had finally gathered the last of them and dropped them back into the bag, she pulled it back up her shoulder and straightened up. It was not until she brushed her hair from her face that she was able to see Clint standing in front of his door.

The young woman jolted when she realized that she wasn't alone, her brown eyes turning to saucers.

She was a woman of just above average height, slim with somewhat gangly legs. She was dressed, it seemed, in tribute of the coming holiday. A pair of black tights were tucked into modest black boots that stopped just below her knees. She wore a rusted orange high-waisted pencil skirt and a white collared blouse. Her coat was black was well, fixed with large buttons and an undone belt.

She was weighed down by several cloth bags, all of them filled to bursting with groceries. A large camel-tan messenger bag was slung over her shoulder as well.

After a moment she shook her shock away and managed a small, nervous smile.

"Uh, Hello!" She said, trying desperately to sound friendly and unaffected. It seemed she wanted to wave, but she remembered the weight of her bags and her arm swayed awkwardly forward and back.

Clint said nothing.

Aside from being the world's greatest marksman, Clint was also a near perfect judge of character. After proving his judgment over and over again, Nick Fury trusted Clint's instincts regarding potential agents almost more than he trusted his own.

After a swift assessment, it was clear to Clint that this woman was simply a woman and not a potential threat to his wellbeing. He wondered absently if she had been the occupant of the apartment next door the last time he had been assigned to vacation. However, knowing the answer bore no credence to his current situation, he abandoned it.

Without a word, he turned back to the door, pushed it open and stepped inside.

* * *

_Just…two more? Yes, two more flights. _

On most days, Jane was never bothered by the long trek from the bottom of the stairs to her home on the top floor. It meant that, after weeks and weeks on the market, the rent had been slashed. And when she had first moved into the apartment, she had decided that the exercise could only be good for her.

Unfortunately today had been the first field trip of the school year and to make matters worse she carried with her almost two weeks of groceries and baking supplies. By the time she had reached the fifth floor, her calf muscles were crying hell fury.

_With my luck, all my groceries will spill right down the stairs. _She thought. Just as she was about to the very last step, one of strap from one bag slipped from her shoulder, slipping it contents over the floor.

"Oh!...damn." She cursed, more exhausted than peeved. _So close!_

Leaning down, she gathered up the apples, thinking only of the steaming hot bath that she would be sinking into the moment she was done with her groceries. Once each of the seven apples had been forced back into their bag, Jane straightened up once more, groaning as her back protested. Pushing her hair from her face, she nearly burst from her skin when she noticed a shadowed figure standing at the end of the hall.

She dug her heels into the stair, frightened she would tumble all the way down herself. Never mind her bags. Sucking in a steadying breath, Jane felt her heart flutter when she realized she recognized the man.

_It's him. _

Offering the stony faced man a small smile she said, "Hello."

Instead of responding in kind, the man's face turned even stonier (something Jane was quite sure was impossible) and disappeared into his apartment.

Jane jumped as the door slammed shut behind him, causing a watery landscape painting that hung in between the two doorways to shiver in its perch.

She stood on the steps, almost too petrified to move; as if making a single sound would draw him out again so that he could snap at her or affix her with another chilling stony glare.

Gathering her wits about her she rushed forward to her own door. Wrestling with her bags, she twisted and turned until she managed to slip her keys from the side pocket of her bag. Forcing the door open, she squeezed herself, and her array of bags, into her apartment. Kicking the door shut behind her, she stopped.

Her feet still cursing her and her arms shaking from the weight of her bags, Jane leaned her back against the door, sliding down to the floor.

He was back.

_The Nowhere Man. _Jane thought, a pleasant shiver running laps around her spine.

She had seen him only once before. And that had been a little over a year ago. The sighting had been so fleeting, she was often kept awake at nights fretting that she had imagined the whole thing.

It had been her second week living in the city. Bogged down by warnings from her mother, aunts and friends in the safe suburbs of Virginia, she had slept little, jumping at every shadow and sound. Waking early for the third day in a row, she decided to step out for coffee and a light jog.

She had seen him then, just as she was about to descend the stairs. With her head phones planted in her ears and music already blaring, she had failed to hear him. He was just leaving as well and he must have exited his apartment mere seconds before she had. Jane remembered approaching the stairs and peering over the railing to watch him go.

At the time, she wasn't even aware that someone occupied the apartment next to hers. She had thought no one would be as crazy or as desperate as her to take the apartment at the top of the stairs with no working elevator.

Even with his face so awfully stern, Jane had thought him a handsome man. He was dressed in a dark coat, a thick black scarf tucked around his neck.

As Jane recalled the memory, she sighed almost serenely. That had been almost two winters ago. Out of all the tenants she had met, he was the only one to draw her attention. She couldn't even explain it. Nor did she spend any time trying to.

After that she had never seen him again. She would often listen for the sound of someone trudging up the stairs, but no one ever came. Considering the early morning hours and her still sleepy mind, Jane had wondered if she had dreamed him up.

It seemed the likely explanation as his face began to appear in her dreams every so often.

When turning in her first month's rent check, she had even asked Mr. V whatever happened to the man who lived next door to her. The landlord, his attention focused on the check, simply muttered something that sounded a lot like "gone a lot." When Jane pressed even further, inquiring where, Mr. V simply said "Nowhere."

After that, she had taken to calling the man, the man she was still half convinced she dreamed up on her own, The Nowhere Man.

Jane felt her skin crawl, recalling the stony look he had all but shot her way. Chastising herself for getting all worked up over a stranger, Jane pulled herself, and her bags from the floor and headed towards her kitchen.

But even as she began transferring groceries from bag to refrigerator, she couldn't help the grin that spread over her face.

_He's back. _She thought. _The Nowhere Man. _

* * *

Thank you for reading! I would love to hear you thoughts so far!


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